


Jonathan to his David

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Codependency, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Small Penis, top!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1560899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before, Bucky loved Steve's size. After, he falls in love with the whole package.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

Before everything, before the war, the long sleeps and the nightmare of waking, Bucky’s life had been basic. He’d liked simple things: home cooking, dancing with pretty women and Steve. Anything to do with Steve, really, but if forced he would say his favorite parts had to do with Steve’s cock. Back then, Steve had been proportional. A compact whippet of a boy whose cock seemed an obvious fit to his thin frame. 

The first time Bucky touched it, it was dark and they were rolled together on the floor more by accident than design. They were in Rogers’ apartment, Bucky having come to seek refuge from the wails of his sister’s new baby and the babble of too many excited voices. Mrs. Rogers was at work already and would return with the dawn. Her night shifts were a good excuse for Bucky to get away from home, 

“Steve needs me.” Were powerful watchwords in the Barnes home. Steve was considered a near saint, venerated for his good manners and pathological kindness. Normally, Bucky’s mother would insist that Steve came to them, but even she was overwhelmed by the addition of another life into their overcrowded lives. 

The truth, as always, was that Steve needed Bucky for very little. If anything, the whole ruse covered up how much Steve took care of Bucky. He was the one that stopped Bucky from drinking grain alcohol on a dare, who listened to Bucky’s rambling bullshit and knew when it was really meant, and Steve was probably the only person in the world that thought Bucky had a brain in his head worth salvaging. 

Steve still went to school, working only a few morning hours at the newsstand to bring home extra coins which meant he was already home long before Bucky got off his shift at the warehouse. Unlike at Bucky’s house where meals were more catch as catch can, Steve would make a real dinner each night that Bucky stayed over. One plate would be lovingly covered for his mother to take to work with her, but the other two they ate at the table, their feet at war with each other under the small space. All through dinner, Steve would repeat what he’d learned and explained things that Bucky would have tried to sleep through even if he had still been in school. But it was Steve, so Bucky listened and learned. 

Bucky would do the dishes while Steve clicked through radio stations after their impromptu tutoring sessions. They’d start off like normal teenage boys, giving each other hell and roughhousing. Yet, they always ended up on the couch with Bucky’s head in Steve’s lap while Steve drew with one hand and ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair with the other. 

It was the most loved, cherished and protected Bucky ever felt. He had a good family, but they were busy, noisy and not inclined to indulge a nearly grown man in childish affections. They weren’t Steve. 

The night in question, they hadn’t reached their quiet stage yet. One mock vicious exchange had sent them careening to the floor, Steve’s sharp fingers poking Bucky in the ribs as Bucky struggled to pin him. Bucky had meant to grab at his thigh, but...well. Maybe he hadn’t. There were a lot of hot and cold running hormones throbbing through them both just then. Either way, Bucky’s hand landed square on Steve’s crotch. 

“Sorry,” Bucky muttered, but he didn’t draw away quite fast enough and some instinct rolled Steve’s hips into his palm. 

“Oh,” Steve’s eyes closed for a breath stuttering second. 

There was really only so much restraint one could expect an adoring fifteen year old to show. Especially one who had recently discovered the wonders of someone else touching his body courtesy of the adventurous Ms. Martine from down the block. Bucky had thought Steve was the best thing on God’s blighted earth since they were dumb little kids. Combining Steve with sex seemed like greatest idea of all time. 

“Can I?” He rubbed a little. 

“Buck,” Steve reached out and for a moment, seemed ready to shove Bucky away, but instead he brought him closer.

They never quite made it to naked that night, but they managed to get their pants down and fumble erections into sweating palms. Vaguely, Bucky registered that Steve was smaller than him, but he wasn’t in the right headspace to do a through survey. 

Afterwards, messy and flushed, they stared at each like they were strangers. For a brief, cavernous moment, Bucky thought he’d ruined all of it. Their friendship might not survive the impulsive interlude and the words that could now accurately be hurled at them. 

Steve leaned up and brushed his lips over Bucky’s. It was so fast and brief, Bucky wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. 

“Not like that,” Bucky scolded, out of habit. Because he liked to teach Steve things. Steve was so fucking smart, that it gave Bucky a thrill to switch their roles. He caught a hand around the back of Steve’s neck and kissed him like Ms. Martine had taught him. When they parted, Steve’s lips were as red as his cheeks. 

“The floor is hurting my ass,” Steve muttered and Bucky laughed. 

They settled on the sofa, Bucky’s head in Steve’s lap and Steve’s hand in Bucky’s hair. 

The first time Bucky touched it was briefly after he walked in the front door the next night. Steve was standing by the window, sucking in the breeze blowing in a breath of sweet spring air and it rustled through his hair with dwindling sunlight lingering in his hair. Bucky was no kind of artist, but he wanted to set down every line of Steve’s body onto paper. 

He didn’t pause for thought as he crossed the creaking floorboards. He just fell to his knees at Steve’s feet and buried his face in the concave curve of Steve’s stomach. 

“Lunkhead,” Steve laughed, shoving at him gently. 

“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered and flicked open the clasps of Steve’s suspenders. 

“Are you crazy?” Steve laughter melted into an irritated hissed. “It’s still light out.” 

“There a law about only doing it in the dark?” Bucky tilted his head back and caught Steve’s heavy lidded look. 

“There’s some kind of law against it in general.” 

But Steve did nothing when Bucky reached for him again, palming the sharp points of his hips and easing down the warm hem of Steve’s pants along with his fraying underwear. Already blood was rushing to Steve’s groin and his cock was flushed pinker than his cheeks. It was small, slender just like the rest of Steve. Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d meant to do, but now his objective was clear. He leaned forward and took the entirety of Steve’s cock into his mouth. 

“Jesus!” Steve’s hand slammed down onto Bucky’s shoulders. “What’re you doing?” 

“No idea. Let’s find out.” 

Bucky did have some idea. He’d listened to the crude talk at the warehouse and stumbled on more than a few whores about their business after his shift came to an end. The principle of the act wasn’t lost on him. He knew ‘cocksucker’ was a dirty word and he felt more than a little filthy as he suckled at the tip. It was bitter and sweaty, but it was Steve’s hands on his shoulders and Steve making shockingly deep groans. 

Maybe it was a bad thing to have a small penis. Bucky had certainly always been told that it was. But there was nothing wrong with Steve’s. It fit perfectly into Bucky’s mouth without making him gag or choke like he’d heard the whores doing. The weight settled easily on the middle of his tongue and he could taste the copper heartbeat that fluttered in Steve’s chest. When Steve came, so quickly and surprising them both, it wasn’t hard for Bucky to swallow it down. 

“I don’t...” Steve leaned against the windowsill, eyes wild and his hand cupping Bucky’s jaw. “Why?” 

“Because I could,” Bucky said with a shrug as if it were one of the many stupid favors they had done each other over the years. 

“Let me,” Steve pushed him to the floor and Bucky was hardly going to say no. 

He noticed Steve’s hands shaking as he undid Bucky’s belt, but he didn’t try to stop him. Stubborn ran like iron down Steve’s spine. It was one of Bucky’s favorite things about him. People always thought that Steve would bend. Break. They always regretted discovering the truth. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at someone elses’,” Steve confessed as he drew Bucky’s erection out. It looked obscenely large in Steve’s hand, a nearly angry red and already dribbling. “Are you big or am I small?” 

“No idea,” Bucky lied. “I like yours better.” 

“Uh huh,” Steve glanced at him suspiciously, before leaning in to inspect Bucky closer. His hand tightened fractionally and Bucky bit back a moan. 

After that, whatever shame or embarrassment Steve might have been wrestling with was shoved away in favor of curiosity. Unlike Bucky’s frank swallowing down, Steve experimented. He licked, touched and sucked in a dozen different ways until Bucky thought he really might just die here and now. 

“Please, Steve, just...pick one and go with it...” He managed to get out between pants. “You’re killing me.” 

“Yeah?” Steve grinned and picked one. It turned out to be a combination of sucking at the head and the kind of twisting hand motion that Bucky liked to use on himself. 

“Gonna...” he warned and then it was over. Steve sputtered and pulled off with his nose wrinkled in distaste. 

“Gross,” he determined, but didn’t make a production out of it. 

“You need a glass of water?” Bucky asked through a haze. 

“I need to wash my hands.” 

Steve didn’t go to the kitchen though. Instead, he slumped over Bucky with his pointy chin propped on Bucky’s shoulder. Hesitantly, Bucky put his hand on Steve’s back. When there were no objections, he started to rub slow circles over the knobs of his spine. They stayed like that until the sun retreated and Steve started to shiver. 

They never talked about what they were doing when they weren’t doing it. Their friendship kept a steady sameness most days. The biggest difference was that Bucky spent a lot of time daydreaming about the weight of Steve’s cock in his mouth or hand. He thought about rubbing himself against it or sitting back and watching Steve take care of himself. He appreciated the rest of Steve’s body, the surprising breadth of his shoulders, the red of his lips and the freckles that rose to the top of his milky thighs. Yet none of that obsessed Bucky more than Steve’s small cock. 

Usually when they fooled around, it was in a big rush. A fifteen minute window here or a furtive hush there. Sometimes though, they had all night and those rare jewels Bucky cherished. He liked to get Steve on the couch, so that he could kneel between his legs and suck on his cock for as long as Steve could take it. Bucky got good at prolonging it, backing off when he felt Steve tense or his moans take on a desperate edge. 

“I hate you,” Steve would protest with his hands scrabbling at Bucky’s shoulders or tugging at his hair. 

“No, you don’t,” Bucky would grin wide and blow cool air over Steve’s overstimulated erection. 

Sometimes it got Bucky so worked up that he’d just come in his pants. Steve never made fun of him. 

“I just don’t get,” he would say instead. “I mean, I don’t mind doing it, but it’s not that exciting.” 

“It’s a me thing,” Bucky would grin stupidly up at him, pants soaked and Steve’s pupils dark and wide. “And a you thing.” 

“I like your thing,” Steve allowed and that was good enough. 

From Sunday sermons and his foul mouthed brother-in-law, Bucky knew something about sodomy. He hadn’t put together in his head with Steve though and might never have if it hadn’t been for Bronco. 

Bronco weighed easily two hundred and fifty pounds and generally kept silent when the other warehouse workers started talking dirty. He didn’t seem to object to it like the more religious guys. He was just quiet and preferred to listen. 

One wiseguy finally poked at Bronco when the silence rubbed him the wrong way, 

“What? A guy like you too big to stick it in a dame?” The guy leered. “Bet you’d crush her before you even stuck it in.” 

“I’m married,” Bronco said stonily. “Got kids.” 

“You sure they're yours?” 

“I know which hole to stick it in,” Bronco growled. “Unlike some fucking idiots I know.” 

“Hey! Nothing wrong with a little backdoor once and a while,” the wiseguy heehawed like a rusty machine. “Tighter and better.” 

“Takes a sick man to put his pecker in there,” Bronco said levelly. “Women already made one way, why turn her into a man?”

The others turned on the wisecracker, but Bucky didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. He was thinking about being a sick man. God had always been an abstract concept for him. Belief was something that was expected, but not particularly reinforced except in times of crisis when his mother would clutch at her heart and invoke saint names to aid her. There was a lot of pain in Bucky’s slice of the world and the newspaper carried more. If God didn’t care about that, Bucky doubted he cared what two boys got up to when they were randy. 

Sick though...sick. Wrong. Crazy. Cocksucker. Sodomite. Bucky lingered on that last one. That seemed like something new. Something different. Up until now, they’d sort of been playing, but there was nothing playful about being sick. 

Yet, once the thought...no. The image. The image of bending over, of Steve sticking his cock inside of Bucky...fuck. It was electric. Every time Bucky thought about it, he shivered from head to toe. He’d go hard if he couldn’t distract himself. He wanted it more than he wanted to dance with the gorgeous redhead in apartment B, more than he wanted to move out of his parent’s apartment and maybe even more than he wanted to be considered normal and healthy. 

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” he confessed to Steve in the darkness.

They were sticky skinned, pressed together under a blanket under the kitchen table where Bucky had his makeshift bed. He’d given up his cot to his older brother, out of work again. It’d been risky, rubbing against each other with so many sleeping bodies so close by, but it was late and they had been near silent. 

“Course there’s something wrong with you,” Steve’s eyes glittered in the dark. “I’ve got a list. You want it alphabetically?” 

“Ha,” Bucky sniffed. “Never mind.” 

“No, come on. What’d you mean?”

“I just...” Bucky drew in a breath just as Steve was exhaling. It filled him up, bolstered him. “I want you to stick it in me. And that’s wrong, right? It’s just...we’re not supposed to do that.” 

Steve was quiet for a long time. Bucky waited and thought about the coins he’d been saving under the floorboard, mentally counting it to keep panic at bay. 

“You really want to?” Steve finally asked. 

“Yeah,” because hell, he’d already admitted it. 

“Guess there’s something wrong with me too,” Steve flicked a sweaty strand of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. “But hey, at least we’re wrong together, right?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky grinned stupidly at the pale flash of Steve’s eyes in the dark. 

It took them months to actually do it. Part lack of privacy, part nerves and part sheer terror that ruined the mood more than once. Then Bucky started seeing a girl named Margaret and Steve refused to fool around at all. 

“It isn’t right,” he’d say and put a polite distance between them. 

“I still want you though,” Bucky protested, all confusion. 

“You can’t have a dame and fool around with me, Buck. Not fair to her.” 

It took Bucky another lifetime to realize that it wasn’t exactly fair to Steve either. Even Steve didn’t seem to realize it at the time. What they did was different, quarantined away from every other kind of lust or affection. 

Margaret left Bucky behind at a dance about a month later with a wrinkled nose and a nasty insult on her lips. He promptly went to the Rogers apartment and was down on his knees with Steve pressed against the door before either of them could get a word out. His hands bracketed the stiff points of Steve’s hips and all he could smell was charcoal, sweat and licorice. 

“You okay?” Steve gasped out somewhere in the middle, his fingers threaded so deep into Bucky’s hair the tips brushed over Bucky’s scalp. 

Bucky didn’t pull away to reassure him. He wanted only to immerse himself. For the first time, he did wish Steve was bigger. Big enough that Bucky could burrow into him and never come out again. Maybe he said some of that somehow with tongue and fingers because afterwards, Steve didn’t ask him again. Just led him to the couch and lay down with him for a drowsy hour, listening to jazz whisper out from the radio. 

For Bucky’s sixteenth birthday, they finally managed the right combination of elements. Mrs. Rogers was at work, the apartment quiet in her absence. No one was expecting Bucky home. There was no third party to stand in their way. 

“We should use the bed,” Steve suggested around a hard swallow. His pupils were blown wide from the thorough kiss Bucky had laid on him and his hands shook. Bucky wasn’t exactly steady himself, so he didn’t call Steve on it. 

“Bed would be good.” 

Steve’s bed was a squeaky bundle of bolts, but it butted up against the relatively safe living room wall. The sound shouldn’t carry next door. The downstairs neighbors were mostly deaf. It was as good as they could hope for. 

Still, they both stalled out at the sight of the thin mattress. It seemed too real, too present. 

“We don’t have to,” Steve reached out and grabbed up Bucky’s hand. “Really, I don’t care.” 

“I do,” Bucky found strength in Steve’s grip. He pulled away just long enough to strip down, a shiver of cool air over his bare skin. 

When he lay back on the bed, he caught sight of a tattered scrap of paper that had been tacked discreetly to the ceiling, so flush that the only way to see it was flat on one’s back. It was a sketch of his own face, turned just toward the artist with the first hint of a smile tilting upward. 

“I-” Steve started then stopped. 

“Don’t say a damn word. Just...get naked and then get in here.” 

Steve undressed economically, clothes draped over the back of a chair and then he was crawling over Bucky, the warm brush of his skin sending a new set of shivers through Bucky’s nerves. As he’d wanted to in the past, Bucky spread open his legs, catching Steve between his thighs. He felt exactly right there, fitting as neatly as if God himself had intended it. 

They kissed for a long time. Longer than either of them had allowed themselves before. When Steve bit experimentally on Bucky’s bottom lip, the instant frisson of want threw Bucky off guard. He groaned, soul deep, and Steve took that up as a prime directive. He licked and nibbled until Bucky though he might go crazy with it. 

“You look,” Steve sat back on his heels, eyes bright in the growing dim, “like a debauched angel.” 

“I ain’t no kind of angel,” Bucky laughed. 

“Maybe a fallen one,” Steve quipped and Bucky wanted to lick the laughter from his mouth. “I...I got a bottle of Vaseline. I heard...um.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky swallowed. “I’ve heard that too. Good idea.” 

With a brisk nod, Steve pulled the container out from under his mattress. When he opened the lid, it was clear that it wasn’t exactly a virgin bottle. 

“Dry lips?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. 

“I had to know. Before I did it to you, how it...” The red flush started at Steve’s face, extending down his neck. 

“Did you like it?” 

“I...yeah. I guess. It was strange.” 

“Huh,” Bucky reached for the container, but Steve pulled it out of his reach. “That bad?” 

“No! No. Only... I thought I might do it. For you. It’s a bad angle. When you do it on yourself.” 

“Right,” Bucky dropped a hand and goddammit, now he was blushing too. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.” 

It was a fucking amazing idea as it turned out. Bucky had no idea how it would’ve gone if he’d done it to himself first. He wouldn’t have been half as gentle or slow as Steve. He would have missed the care with which Steve dabbed the thick jelly onto his fingers and then reached down to part Bucky’s ass with far more reverence than it deserved. In soft wondering circles, Steve slicked Bucky’s hole thoroughly before daring even the slightest breach.

It happened so slowly that Bucky fell into a dreamlike state. The intrusion, uncomfortable as it was, also seemed natural. Of course it would burn as Steve worked his finger inside. It should. It marked something new and fresh and exciting. Everything Bucky had ever gotten worth having had caused him pain along the way. Even Steve came with his share of thrown punches and black eyes. 

“You okay?” Steve turned his head, asked the question in a breathless mumble into Bucky’s knee. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky licked his lips, worked experimentally further down. “Keep going.” 

Time melted into a meaningless slag. Steve kept running his free hand over Bucky’s stomach and chest which should have been maddening, but instead only enhanced the sweetness of it all. 

When Bucky had allowed himself to picture this, it had been dirty. Filthy even. Sweat and foul language and pain. It might have been easier if it was. When Steve worked a second finger into him, it did give Bucky a taste of pain, but nothing that would taint the memory of Steve biting at his lower lip as he concentrated on the movement of his fingers. 

“You should do it now,” Bucky cleared his throat and the sudden break in the silence was almost more uncomfortable than the fingers. 

“I could-” 

“Nah, it’s okay.” 

After some confusion about angles, Bucky folded Steve’s thin pillow over itself and jammed it under his own hips. It felt awkward and vulnerable, the jelly intensifying the cold and making his skin tighten as he exposed himself. 

“You look...” Steve couldn’t seem to find a word, but the reverence with which he stroked his hands down Bucky’s thighs said it all. 

“C’mon,” spreading his legs wider, Bucky reached out to pull Steve closer. “Now or never, Rogers.” 

Which was a lie. Because it was now and tomorrow and possibly forever. A chasm opened under Bucky as Steve steadied himself. The blunt head of Steve’s little cock brushed over Bucky’s hole and Bucky just...fell. Even before Steve pushed in with his eyes stuttering closed, before Steve would make a soft joyful noise that sounded like prayer and even before the pain finally mixed into something like pleasure....before all that Bucky let go of the edge and plummeted into an unknown abyss. 

He wasn’t afraid. Steve was holding onto him, keeping them both safe. 

Their first rutting didn’t last long. The preparation had apparently worn on Steve’s self-control. It was perfect though. Bucky was already a bit sore, the stiff few inches of Steve’s cock forcing their way inside never quite got to comfortable. 

Still when Steve came and collapsed against Bucky’s chest like an endearing pile of sticks, Bucky wound his legs around Steve’s narrow waist so that he’d stay inside a little longer. 

“Looked like fun,” Bucky teased, ruffling a hand through Steve’s hair. 

“I’ll get you in a second, “Steve promised, wheezing a little. It wasn’t the bad kind of wheeze that led to paper bags and prayer. Just a normal Steve wheeze, a whistle through his crappy lungs. 

Eventually, Steve did get him, hands around Bucky’s cock and his mouth latched to the side of Bucky’s neck. It was good, but Bucky never recounted it when he replayed the memory in his head. 

They shared the bed that night without talking much about it. Steve slept mostly draped over Bucky with their legs tangled up together and their skin bare to the world. In the morning, Bucky left reluctantly for work. He said goodbye to Steve at the door, a careless wave as if it were all still the same. 

Because it had to be. The enormity of what he’d felt the night before was already sealed away behind a brick wall in his head. They’d fool around a few more times over the next year or so, but they never did go the whole way again. It’d be too risky, too much and Steve ever questioned it. Never protested when Bucky set them up on double date after double date. 

When the brick wall and the dames weren’t enough, Bucky joined the army. 

“I wish I could go with you,” Steve touched the sleeve of Bucky’s uniform with the same care he’d once used on Bucky’s body. 

“Yeah, me too,” Bucky lied. He wasn’t a good man like Steve. He wasn’t joining up to fight the righteous fight. He just needed to get away from the surety of Steve beside him and the tangle of impossibilities it created. “It won’t be nearly the same without you.” 

It turned out going to war to get away from his best friend would not number as one of his better decisions. In the cold and rank stench of fear, he reassured himself that he would probably have wound up there anyway. Better than he volunteered and got to the inevitable sooner. In the beginning, before he had spent too many hours staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle, he would write Steve long letters. 

In return, he got enthusiastic responses several pages long, punctuated with cartoons and scribbles as Steve’s mind wandered in the margins. Bucky folded the letters up tight and kept the close. Even when his own correspondence began to flag, Steve still sent letters though they became noticeably shorter and filled with unspecified excitement. 

Men died. One in Bucky’s arms. He didn’t know his name and couldn’t stop moving to learn it. The confirmed kill count that he only tracked in his head grew and grew until it stopped making him sick to think about. 

More and more, he took refuge in his memories. He ran from battlefields to the safety of the Rogers apartment. Instead of rations, he ate Steve’s omelets and bread puddings. When it was too dark to read the letters, he could recite long portions of them to himself to block out the noise of bombings. 

“I go home sometimes too,” another private once confessed to him. “I walk down my street and go into the stores. I talk to my mother. Dance with my best girl.”

Bucky only nodded, words stuck fast in his throat. 

He used to be a talker, but fighting robbed him of his quick tongue. There was too much to say and no room to say it in. 

_Dear Steve,_

_Sorry I haven’t written in a while. There are a whole heap of excuses I could give, but the truth is that there isn’t much here that I want to share with you. The guys and I made camp last night, but we’ve already heard that we’re supposed to be moving out again tomorrow morning. I’m tired. A new kind of tired._

_I don’t think I can write two letters tonight. So could you tell my mother that I’m fine in general and that I am getting her letters still, if a little later than before? I know she worries, but my socks are still whole and I’m keeping warm as best I can._

__

He never did get around to signing, let alone sending that letter. Sleep had come over him halfway through and then it was morning and they were on the move. Deep into the heart of dangerous land. Bucky barely even noticed. He was in Brooklyn, slowing his pace so Steve could keep up. 

When his unit was captured, Bucky fought viciously and without quarter. Yet, even as he killed, some small part of him was talking about batting average and anticipating the moments they’d have alone later, so that Bucky could feel the weight of Steve’s cock on his tongue. 

Maybe if he’d been entirely present, he would have been killed right alongside so many of the men in his unit. Maybe he would’ve evaded the enemy altogether. One way or another, history might have gone another way. 

At first, they stuck him in a cell with the rest of the men where they grumbled and whispered messy plans for escape among themselves. There were other POWs in other cells and they spread the knowledge of what was to come: heavy labor until it killed you. 

“There’s too many of us and not enough of them,” was the general consensus among the prisoners. “We can overwhelm them.” 

Two tall guards walked through flanking a piggish looking man, who squinted into each cell behind his glasses. Somehow, Bucky wasn’t surprised when all the scrutiny led to one stubby finger being pointed directly at him. 

“That one,” the piggish man declared in German so clear that Bucky could decipher it even with his pigeon knowledge. “The guards said he fought like a demon.” 

Their hands were rough on his arms as they pulled him away from the others. He didn’t struggle, figuring there’d be easier times for escape. Until the saw the table with it’s leather straps and the complicated machines. Then he fought like the possessed thing that the German had called him. 

It was in vain. 

He learned new definitions for pain and horror. They didn’t break his bones or beat him. They didn’t have to. The machines extracted his humanity far more efficiently. Too efficiently, they brought him too quickly past the point of breaking and into a mindless null space. He spent his waking times repeating the same nonsense information. A name that detached from his body, a number applied only to meat. 

“Bucky.” 

And out of thoughtless mush came only one word. One word that meant everything. He pried open his eyes and there was the face he had summoned for so long that for a long moment, he was sure he was dead. 

“It’s me,” the voice and face promised, “It’s Steve.” 

“Steve?” Bucky reached out or tried to. 

But the man who lifted him up and set him on his feet was too large to be Steve. He was a drawing that Steve might make of himself as a joke: Steve the Soldier. Bucky clung to him, willing to accept help from the unlikely apparition and stumbled with him through the halls. 

Later, on that long heroic walk back, Steve would tell him everything. Bucky would listen and on the surface would believe each detail because Steve wasn’t capable of that large of a lie. Underneath, below his pride and his rational mind, Bucky believe something utterly different: Steve had become what he had been all along. 

As they stumbled over the rock strewn path, Bucky was already mourning the man he’d left behind and learning to like the one standing beside him. This man slowed his pace for Bucky, this man held his shoulders squared in confidence and this man, this Steve, could do all the things that he wanted to do. But he wasn’t Steve, who touched Bucky with reverence and hidden longing. He wasn’t Steve, who admired Bucky from the sidelines. He certainly wasn’t the Steve, who had fit perfectly between Bucky’s thighs. 

“I missed you,” Steve put an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, broad and strong. 

“Missed you too, you big girl,” Bucky laughed and slapped Steve on the back. 

This man, this Steve, was probably hung like a horse and when they got back to camp, proved to be head over heels for a woman with steel in her eyes and a gun at her waist, so it was all academic anyway. But this man was all the Steve that there was to have, so Bucky signed up to stand beside him. 

With the Howling Commandos, there wasn’t much privacy. Steve’s attention was split a thousand ways and he needed Bucky to be stalwart, silent and dependable, instead of another squeaky wheel. So that’s what Bucky became. He turned his skills over to Steve’s command, adding more notches to the post in his head. He told funny stories when morale was low and learned bawdy songs to fit in. 

“I couldn’t do this without you,” Steve confessed. 

“Yeah, you could,” Bucky slapped him on the arm. It was solid and hard. There were no soft places on Steve’s body anymore, nowhere that would give if Bucky pulled him in close.


	2. After

So he died. Sure his flesh was pried from ground, made animate and strung up like puppet, but James Buchanan Barnes died on that mountainside. For many years, he even had the good grace to stay dead as his body enacted unspeakable horrors. Unfairly, the body retained memories as readily as the mind. Home was buried under a pile of corpses. The smell of licorice gave way to burning hair and the salty taste of skin to the foul rubber shoved between teeth. 

Resurrection was a painful process, unforgiving process. 

The body and mind couldn’t quite reconcile to each other even as they paced the globe together. Bucky forced the flesh to Brooklyn, but the streets had changed. The flesh drove him to buried far off bases, but they stood empty and silent. 

A news station in Montreal played while he fed the flesh. Captain America stared steadily into the camera, answering questions in French. French that he learned while shivering in tents, repeating the words back to Dernier with a wrinkled brow. 

Bucky watched. He listened. He stood, flesh and mind in temporary agreement. It wasn’t hard to track down a superhero, who was making it a point to be found. Whatever Steve had been saying, his eyes had been focused somewhere else. A place that Bucky knew. 

The hotel room was larger than the old Rogers apartment. Bucky came in through the window and stood at the foot of the enormous bed. It was dark and Bucky had been silent, but Steve detected him anyway. He didn’t stir from his place under the covers, but his eyes were open and his muscles were tense. 

“Hey, Bucky,” he said eventually. 

“Hey,” Bucky whispered. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“Yeah.” 

“How have you been?” It was polite and laden with a thousand other things. 

“Really goddamn shitty,” Bucky knelt at the edge of the mattress. “I’m tired.” 

“Come and sleep then.” 

And Steve, stupid trusting Steve, pulled back the blankets. Bucky eyed the empty spot on the mattress for a long time. He had a hard time sleeping with so many screaming echoes in his head. He sometimes woke up as someone else. He lost time, minutes, hours and once days. 

But this man was strong. He survived what had killed Bucky and then some. With care, Bucky shucked off his shoes and crawled into the blank spot on the bed. He closed his eyes against the outline of Steve’s face and surprised them both by falling instantly asleep. 

It took months for Bucky to claw his way back to himself. Months where he often removed himself from Steve’s presence altogether. There were a few weeks spent in a top secret psychiatric facility that only left behind an impression of antiseptic and a raw throat. After that, there were bottles of pills that rattled twice a day and started to clear away fog. Still, there were whole days when he couldn’t budge himself from the window sill, a tense gargoyle. 

His greatest aid and best friend in those days wasn’t Steve or even another human being at all. 

“Jarvis?” He ask at all times of day and night. 

“Yes, Mister Barnes?” 

The steady voice which demanded nothing had been his first acquaintance in Steve’s new home. Steve had introduced them with all the giddiness of someone who’d read a few too many adventure magazines as a kid. Steve heard something wonderful and mechanical. 

Bucky found something useful. 

“Perimeter check.” 

“All entrances are locked down. Eight people currently in the building, all permanent residents.” 

“Thanks, man.” 

“You are welcome, Mister Barnes.” 

Jarvis didn’t care how many times Bucky asked. He didn’t get annoyed by paranoia or become concerned when Bucky just needed to find a tall place and stare out over the city for awhile. Jarvis fed him history when he asked for it and showed him movies based on what he’d liked before. They were companions in the long hours when the others had real jobs to attend to. 

Around month eight, Jarvis started introducing films and shows that had characters of a distinct bent. They started as background characters, limp-wristed butts of jokes just as they had been when Bucky had last gone to the movies. Slowly though, they became something else. Main characters, who loved and wept and struggled. They were believable, these men. They had real hearts and fears. There wasn’t magical acceptance, but there was some degree of begrudging acknowledgement. 

“How real is this?” Bucky asked into the silence of the credits. 

“I’ve attempted to give as accurate a picture as possible, Mister Barnes.” 

Jarvis was a good friend. He didn’t prod or poke or ask questions. He couldn’t even look meaningfully at Bucky. Yet, there came a day when it wasn’t enough. Bucky started to crave company again. 

“Can I come with you?” He asked as Steve picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. 

“Sure,” Steve smiled at him like someone had lit him up from the inside. “Just headed out to Central Park.” 

It was green there, both vast and closed in. Bucky spent too much time scanning the trees and tensing as kids ran by shrieking. Steve led them into a meadow full of people on blankets and threw down his own plaid sheet. Even with a baseball cap and glasses, some people seemed to recognize Steve, but they made a point of just smiling and leaving him be. 

“Tony says New Yorkers are too cool to get excited about celebrities,” Steve shrugged and pulled out a clean white pad. 

“Tony’s cool meter is busted,” Bucky said, just because. It made Steve smile again. A warmth bloomed in Bucky’s chest and he held onto it long after Steve had turned his attention away. 

Since Steve was busy sketching, Bucky stayed on guard. He watched a Frisbee game and a cluster of girls tying together dandelions. There were a series of serious young men reading books and older women stretched out soaking in the late spring sun. No one and nothing that actually classified as a threat, but it was an open space and there were a lot of people. 

“You want lunch?” Steve asked and Bucky had to check in with his stomach to establish that it was indeed, a meal time. 

“Okay.” 

They ate hot dogs. Two for Bucky and five for Steve, all of them piled high with relish. The sun sliced down over their blanket, intoxicatingly warm. 

“I’ll keep watch for a bit,” Steve muttered when the food was gone and Steve had never once lied to him. He wouldn’t wait for Bucky to fall off and then go back to something else. He’d use those keen eyes and fast reflexes to keep Bucky’s rest undisturbed. 

He didn’t quite sleep, but he let go and concentrated on the sun and the grass. People talked all around him, yet they couldn’t hurt him. He was safe in the world, on this tiny vessel of plaid and cotton. 

“Steve?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Thanks.” 

And with his eyes closed, it could be his Steve again. Small and strong and fierce. It was his Steve that answered, without question, 

“You’re welcome.” 

Summer crept in, heated the air and it was somehow Steve’s birthday. There was a party which Bucky assiduously avoided though he watched much of it from a dozen security feeds on the flatscreen in his room. Steve looked uncomfortable, yet pleased as people approached him, crowded him in. 

Once, in 1934, they had celebrated Steve’s birthday by sharing a stack of chocolate bars. Bucky had never told Steve that he’d stolen them, desperate to help his winter thinned friend. Now, there was free food as far as the eye could see, a buffet table laden down with plenty and Steve could survive years without a molecule of it, apparently. It didn’t seem fair. 

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Master Barnes?” 

“Why do bad things happen to good people?” 

“If I were able to answer that question, I would be more god than computer, sir. I don’t believe there is a general consensus among humanity. Some would cite free will, others chaos and still others a grand plan of one deity or another.” 

“I think life just sucks.” 

“Buddhists do say that all life is suffering.” 

“Yeah? Smart guys.” 

“They would also say that it isn’t permanent, sir. All living things eventually die. Time is finite.” 

Bucky stared at the monitor. At Steve, who was and wasn’t his Steve. He thought about his own flesh and his own mind. The fragility they’d once shared and the new frightening permanence that bound them now. What happened when death was no longer a guarantee? 

Music started up at the party. Pepper took Tony onto the dance floor to get things moving and they looked good together. On the sidelines, Steve watched them with his hands in his pockets. A woman approached on his left, waiting to be noticed, but Steve wasn’t there. He was looking into the distance, past Tony and Pepper. 

Bucky took the elevator and practically jogged to his rightful place. He stood on Steve’s right, blocking the woman’s path. 

“You came!” Steve returned from wherever he had traveled. “I thought you said-” 

“I know what I said, Rogers,” Bucky nudged him with an elbow. “This is where I want to be right now.” 

Steve leaned imperceptibly closer and they watched sparkling gowns flash by. 

“I got you something,” Bucky admitted. 

“You didn’t have to. Sometimes feel like I’ve got too much these days.” 

“Shut up,” Bucky rolled his eyes and fished the crumpled paper bag out of an interior pocket. 

“You shouldn’t have,” Steve said dryly. 

“Just open it, smart ass.” 

Steve reached in and pulled out the smaller plastic bag from inside. It had been surprisingly easy to find an old fashioned candy store. Apparently retro was in. Though the store he’d found had been far too clean to really remind him of the the nasty corner shop where they’d spent too many hours with too few coins in their pockets. 

“Licorice laces! I’ve only been able to find the cherry ones. Where’d you get the real stuff?” Steve unwound one long black string. 

“Google is your friend.” 

“I can’t remember the last time I had this.” With his incandescently white teeth, Steve bit off long inches of the black string. “Thanks, Buck.” 

“It was selfish,” Bucky admitted, eyes on the crowd. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I wanted something to be like it was. Even if it’s just your terrible breath,” he tried to shrug the words away, but they were lodged there between them. “I figured that way maybe...maybe I’d get up the courage to see if you still taste the same too.” 

The arm that went around his shoulder took him off guard. He almost lashed out, steadying himself only in the last possible moment. Lips, licorice scented, pressed too hard against his forehead in painful benediction. 

“Of course you’d wait until we were in public,” Steve mumbled into Bucky’s hair. 

“We can go be not in public whenever you want.” 

They were gone in minutes. Steve shepherded him away with color high on his cheeks, but his eyes narrowed in determination. Alone in Steve’s kitchen, they faced each other from bare inches apart. 

“I didn’t want to assume anything,” raising a hand, Steve slid it around Bucky’s neck. It rested there, possessive and heavy. 

“Probably for the best.” 

It was strange to tilt his face upward to kiss Steve. Strange, yet the touch was familiar, the lips chapped in the same place and still softly demanding. They lingered there, twin pillars joined only by Steve’s grip and the liquid eternity of the kiss. 

When they parted, neither made a further move. They wound up on the couch instead of the bedroom, letting Starsky and Hutch wash over them. Steve was up to the 70s in his pop culture consumption apparently. As Bucky’s eyelids grew heavy, he slid down the couch. If his head wound up on Steve’s lap and Steve’s hand found it’s way into Bucky’s hair, well that was just fine by the both of them. 

Despite the years and their relative maturity, the second time around they were both even more hesitant. Their long separation had robbed them of surety. Trust in his own body, something that come easily as a horny teenager, seemed an impossibility to Bucky now. Steve had gained confidence, but he seemed to feel their ruptured connection more. 

“Come to dinner with me,” Bucky invited gruffly after days of jittery conversation. 

“Can we get Thai?” 

“Yeah, works for me.” 

They sat across from each other in a red and gold lit restaurant, too large for their table and the cutlery too delicate for broad hands. 

“Tell me about the last two years,” Bucky blurted before he could check himself. 

“What about them?” Steve’s eyes went wide and wild. 

“Whatever you want to tell me. I want to know what...what happened. What I missed.” 

“You missed more than that.” 

“You think I care about the parts where you weren’t there?” 

Maybe that’s too much, too raw and too true. Steve stared at him with thinly veiled concern, so Bucky stared right back. Steve’s eyes were just the same. A deceptively clear blue that could turn from vague sweetness to sharp dissection in an instant. 

“I woke up in a set. They were trying to make me feel comfortable, I guess, but they got it wrong,” Steve started slow, but he warmed to the story. 

Their food came and Steve talked through forkfuls of slippery noodles and peanuts. The tight hold they both kept on their bodies gave way and their legs tangled under the table. Occasionally Bucky asked prodding questions or turned the story away from subjects that clouded Steve’s face, but otherwise he kept his peace. 

They walked back to the tower, winding their way through the shadows of unfamiliar streets. Steve was describing the ruin of the streets after the invasion, one hand gesturing at a storefront and the other brushing against Bucky’s wrist. 

Bucky slipped his fingers into that free hand. He’d done it a hundred times with women, once upon a time, but it felt new all over again. Steve sipped in a breath and then continued on as if nothing had happened though he squeezed Bucky’s hand gently. 

They could have this. The thought settled over Bucky and seeped under his skin. They could be this now. Here, after everything, they could at least be this. 

The next day Steve proposed a movie outing with an ‘aw shucks’ bent to his head that made Bucky want to punch him. After some debate, they wound up watching a dull romantic comedy. It had the benefit of being neither violent nor ominously titled ‘Frozen’. It did give Bucky time to study Steve’s profile in the near dark. Here was the familiar high brow and the jut of his nose. There was tight press of his lips when he was concentrating and the long wave of his eyelashes. The jaw wasn’t right anymore, almost painfully squared and dimpled. 

“You’re going to make me self-conscious,” Steve muttered, shifting under the attention. 

“I’ve seen you covered in your own vomit,” Bucky whispered back. 

“And thank you for that memory,” Steve mock sighed. 

Bucky picked up Steve’s hand, running his fingertips over knuckles and nails. It was too large now, calloused not where a pencil would sit, but a gun would be held. Turning it over, Bucky studied the lines carved into flesh. Were they the same? Impetuous teenage Bucky had never looked closely enough. 

There was a thin jagged scar across the tip of a forefinger. 

“I picked that up in Basic,” Steve whispered when Bucky touched it. “Fell while I was running.” 

Bucky stared at the white line for a long time. He hadn’t thought much about Steve’s body changing before the serum. He tried to imagine it now. What would’ve happened if Bucky had come back from war like a normal vet and Steve had been...what? Waiting for him? Waiting for what? They would still both have been different. Maybe they wouldn’t have managed to even stay friends. 

An impossible potential future stretched beside reality for a terrifying beat. A future where Bucky married, some pretty dame and had kids. That normal life with bills and a tough job. Bad dreams with no one to talk to about them and thwarted desires that built into ugly resentment. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Bucky stood abruptly and left the theater behind with Steve on his heels. 

“Movie wasn’t that bad.” 

“Something I’d rather be watching, I guess.” 

“Yeah?” Steve brushed their shoulders together. 

There was no need to hunt for privacy. Steve’s apartment was generous and quiet. Without pausing to think much, Bucky put his hand at the small of Steve’s back and guided him right to the bedroom. Kicking the door shut, Bucky reached out and tugged at the hem of Steve’s t-shirt. 

“Woah, we can-” 

“Sick of waiting,” Bucky tugged again. “Get it off, Rogers.” 

Steve paused, but apparently read something in Bucky’s expression. He stripped away his t-shirt and shucked off his pants. He didn’t ask Bucky to return the favor, just stood there in his boxer briefs. It was what Bucky had expected: thick muscle and easy breath. Pressing his palm to Steve’s chest, Bucky felt the steadiest heartbeat that had ever graced a human chest. No more fluttering. 

With a fortifying breath, Bucky dropped to his knees. He hooked his fingers into elastic and prepared himself. He reminded himself that Steve was probably thrilled with the increase, like any normal guy would. Bucky could learn to like a huge cock. It was functionally the same after all. 

He pulled Steve’s underwear off with one quick movement like peeling off a bandage. 

“Hope you aren’t...” Steve began and then trailed off. “Well.” 

It was just the same as Bucky remembered and he could’ve wept. The same inches that had driven him to the brink of sanity hung there, still flushing pink as they hardened. He didn’t bother reassuring Steve with words. Instead, he licked Steve from root to tip and then swallowed him down. 

“Bucky,” his name was broken in two with a rough moan that was nearly a sob. 

He trailed his tongue up that one throbbing vein and found the divot under the head. Steve’s hands wove into his hair. For the first time since he left for war, Bucky knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

Steve laid him out on the bed afterwards and proved that time had taught him a thing or two. Bucky didn’t ask where Steve had learned to deep throat or swallow. He didn’t want to know. Afterwards, Steve still reached for the glass of the water by the bed and drank it down with a little too much urgency, but Bucky couldn’t have cared less. 

“You gonna stay?” Steve asked, still kneeling on the mattress. 

“Yes,” Bucky tugged him down. There was too much of Steve to let him doze off on top of Bucky, but there was a compromise of Steve’s head on Bucky’s chest. 

They might’ve drifted off entirely, maybe Steve even thought Bucky had when he murmured. 

“I thought you’d laugh.” 

“About what?” 

“You know.” 

Bucky smoothed a hand over Steve’s spine. It rested more easily under the surface of Steve’s skin now, but the muscles were still tense on either side. The product of trying to hold the whole word on his shoulders. They’d never be broad enough for what Steve rested on them. 

“Go to sleep,” Bucky ordered. 

When he was sure that Steve had obeyed, Bucky carried on a whispered conversation with Jarvis. Then he too closed his eyes and let Jarvis take the night watch. He only slept a few hours, but apparently Steve wasn’t much for a full night’s rest these days either. They regarded each other in the dark and without much talk reached for each other. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Bucky told him in a series of stinging kisses. 

“That’s forward of you,” he said even as he rolled Bucky onto his back. 

“I took you to dinner and a movie. You should put out.” 

“I took you to dinner and a movie,” Steve corrected.

“So I’ll put out,” Bucky shrugged. “Come on, you know you want to.” 

“Of course I want to.” It came out in a near growl. “Buck, you’ve got no idea...no goddamn idea how much. I never thought you’d be in my bed again.” 

“Never wanted to be anywhere else. Got something better than Vaseline these days?” 

“Yeah and I’ll even use it if you don’t ask where I got it from,” Steve leaned at a precarious angle to fumble in the nightstand drawer. 

“Tony?” 

“Worse. Natasha.” 

“How’d that conversation go?” 

“Badly.” A weird shaped bottle dropped onto the pillow by Bucky’s head.

“Pjur Backdoor Glide?” 

“Very badly,” Steve frowned at the bottle. “It does work better though.” 

“Backdoor?” 

“I didn’t name it!” 

“Nah, you just let a girl buy it for you,” he grinned and reached for the bottle. He held it in metal hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. “What’s jojoba?” 

“Damned if I know,” Steve took it from him. “Probably softens your skin or something. Everything seems to want to soften your skin these days.” 

“Nothing wrong with a little bit of rough trade,” Bucky winked. 

“Hey,” Steve looked down at him. “I remember you.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky grinned up at him. “I remember you too.” 

When he spread his legs, he found that Steve’s waist still fit neatly between his thighs. Now though, Steve was tall enough that he could lean down to kiss Bucky as he used his larger fingers to open him up. It was still infinitely slow, Steve treating him like something fragile and precious as he teased lubrication into him. Unlike the Vaseline, the lube actually felt slick. It tingled a little, taking away the soreness that Bucky remembered. 

“You can’t hurt me,” Bucky arched into the pierce of two long fingers. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Steve rubbed their cheeks together, the catch of their morning stubble sending a thrill down Bucky’s spine. “Of course I can.” 

“Well. Not like this.” 

Reluctantly, Steve drew out and nudged at Bucky to rollover. 

“Why?” 

“Apparently it’s better that way,” Steve grabbed up the lube again. “Hands and knees.” 

“Yeah? Huh. Where’d you learn that?” 

“Same conversation we aren’t going to talk about.” 

The initial penetration still burned, but it was easier this way. It wasn’t quite right though, Bucky shifted uneasily. 

“Should I stop?” Steve froze. 

“No, just let me...” Bucky pushed himself up, pressing his back to Steve’s chest. As if they’d down this a dozen times, Steve’s arms went around Bucky’s chest and his mouth fell to Bucky’s shoulder, a kiss landing right at the joint between metal and flesh. “Fuck...yeah. This.” 

It wasn’t a great angle for thrusting, but Steve didn’t utter a protest. He just rocked their hips together and let Bucky lean into him. Maybe this man wasn’t the Steve that Bucky remembered, but maybe time or God or some act of beautiful coincidence had brought the shattered pieces back together to fit in this new configuration. 

Didn’t hurt that this way, Steve could bring a hand down to Bucky’s cock and jerk him off in time with his penetration. Bucky came in a mess of swears and groans, his hands scrabbling at Steve’s thighs. 

“You’re so...” Steve panted and came with the same prayerful noise. 

They collapsed down onto the mattress, Steve still half-tucked inside. When he made to get up, Bucky grunted a threat that stilled him. They lay together for too long. Long enough that their sweat itched over their skin and their come grew tacky. 

“Shower,” Steve demanded and harassed Bucky into the bathroom while he stripped off the sheets. 

It gave Bucky a window of time. When Steve took his turn in the shower, Bucky retrieved the printout that Jarvis had done for him in the night. He folded it carefully and left it on the pillow, before heading to the kitchen to find something to eat. He wasn’t interested in watching Steve discover the note. 

He heard it though. The faint fall of wet feet, the whisper quiet shuffle of paper on paper, the squeak of the mattress as Steve sat down on the bed. Bucky could imagine the unfolding, the picture of Michelangelo's David on one side in all his muscular glory right down to the less than generous genitals confusing Steve. 

Then Steve would see the small arrow and flip it over. The printed words, 

_**I Samuel 18**_

_**As soon as he had finished speaking to Saul, the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. And Saul took him that day and would not let him return to his father's house. Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was on him and gave it to David, and his armor, and even his sword and his bow and his belt.** _

Would Steve puzzle over those words or would he guess their meaning? Would he rush to the shaky handwriting beneath them or linger? 

_  
There’s not much left of me, but all of it belongs to you. Always has._

_Jonathan to your David,_

_James_

__

Bucky didn’t bother to pretend to be eating when Steve finally came into the kitchen. He waited, tense until Steve pulled him into a fierce hard hug. They were both still naked, bare in the middle of a futuristic kitchen, miles and years away from the first place they’d called home. Too many wounds and aches between them and not even enough words, but they’d figure it out. 

This man and the one that Bucky was becoming. This was their world now and Bucky would fight to end of the line for it.


End file.
